


live through this, and you won't look back

by acid_glue234



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/F, F/M, Friendship, Hospitals, Mild Language, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 05:55:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acid_glue234/pseuds/acid_glue234
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She cheats on exams, never does her homework, and doesn't read 'Game of Thrones' anymore. She was so innocent—so beautiful in her innocence—and she was your best friend. You loved her, and what's even more upsetting is that you still do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Senior year; the first thing you learn in your western philosophy class is that Socrates was a pompous bum.

It's unbelievable how much your philosophy teacher mirrors Socrates, who was mostly known for corrupting the youth and irritating a number of prestigious people; not unlike your teacher, who pisses off the school board, the principal, and his wife as much as humanly possible.

It's been a whole year, and you're still trying to figure out why this guy Socrates was so damn important. He didn't write or publish any books, most of his colleagues basically thought he was an idiot, and in the end he got himself poisoned for opening up his big mouth one too many times.

How someone so ridiculous and so out of touch with the natural world could be such a hot commodity is unbeknownst to you, but you suppose that's the whole point of this class. You're not meant to understand, just expand your thinking, and if you say that hasn't been accomplished yet, then you are a blatant liar.

\--

She was the type of girl who wore a yellow baby doll dress underneath her boyfriend's frumpy letterman jacket. She was the type of girl who ran around town in a pair of dirty converses with a skulled skateboard tucked underneath her arm. She'd read Game of Thrones, watch reruns of Chuck, and eat bags and bags of Fritos.

That was who she _used_ to be...well, before Sam left, that is. Now, she hangs out with a bad crowd. The girl who wore baby doll dresses now shoplifts from the corner store. The girl who ran around town in dirty converses and a skateboard tucked underneath her arm now tags the school in the middle of the night.

She cheats on exams, never does her homework, and doesn't read Game of Thrones anymore. She was so innocent—so beautiful in her innocence—and she was your best friend. You loved her, and what's even more upsetting is that you still do.

You shut your locker harder than expected, which successfully draws her attention. Awesome. She's standing around a group of her new, cryptic friends, so she doesn't look at you for too long, but she does look, and it sets your soul on fire. Yes, it is cliché, but you can literally feel yourself dying as her hazel eyes tear you apart, limb from limb, without any remorse or tact or apology.

Quinn was never really known to apologize anyway, so maybe you shouldn't be surprised.

\--

Cedarbrook Hospital is like most hospitals in Ohio; bright, white, and reeks of hand sanitizer. The hallways are silent, because not a lot of emergencies happen in this lonely town of Ohio. The nurse station is made up of gossip and sarcasm. All of the doctors think they're hot shit. Almost no family members ever come to visit their sick uncles, aunts, cousins, sons, etc. It's a sad place to be, but you're here anyway.

You're not sick, or depressed, or clinically ill. You're not here to volunteer out of the goodness of your heart. Actually, ever since Quinn stopped talking to you, you doubt there's really any goodness left to squeeze out of that empty gray organ of yours. You're here because you need to graduate, and in order to graduate, you need to write a twelve page paper on a famous philosophical quote. Fuck you too, Mr. Jenkins.

Your quote; _All men by nature desire to know_. End quote. You found it in your Metaphysics textbook. Apparently Aristotle said it. Unlike his buddy, Socrates, Aristotle was actually well-respected in Greek times. Sure, he made up a bunch of bullshit too, which no one actually gives a fuck about now, other than Mr. Jenkins (and Puck, sometimes), but it's a quote you can actually relate to, so whatever.

You're set to disprove this quote, because knowing is scary shit. Why know things when you can live in bliss, when you can pretend your heart isn't breaking every time you make eye contact with the girl you're in love with? Knowing is stupid. Plain stupid.

You wave to Rhonda, the floor nurse, when you pass her station, and she waves back as you enter Linden's cozy, little room. _Beep, beep, beep_ ; the sound drives you insane and has your head throbbing by the end of your visits, but you deal with it, because Linden is a sad and lonely old man who can't even remember his own name.

He has an inoperable brain tumor somewhere in that large noggin of his. Almost every five minutes some kind of timer resets in his head, which then has him asking, "Who're you?" even though you've been to this hospital at least fifty times.

You tell him, "It's Santana, Linden," but you don't know why you even bother, because he'll be asking you again in another five minutes anyway.

He breaks out his portable chessboard as soon as you take a seat beside his bed. Brings that thing with him everywhere. You don't even know how to play chess, yet you humor him anyway, because if you don't he gets cranky and clams up and doesn't talk to you for the rest of your visit, which then totally defeats the purpose of coming here in the first place.

Rhonda pops in a half hour into your visit. Her Jamaican accent is so soothing as she asks, "Were you planning on visiting Ana today?"

Your shoulders shrug, because it's getting kind of late, and also because Ana is usually really depressing to visit. "Don't know yet. Why?" you ask, and Rhonda says, "Her crazy mom is here," and that pretty much confirms your answer.

You shake your head as Linden moves his rook all the way across the board and knocks your queen to the floor. "Checkmate," he says cheerfully, and you're pretty certain he can't do that, but you let him win anyway.

You can see the sun setting through his window, and it's starting to get dark out, yet your dad probably won't even give a crap if you're home late. Maybe it's reverse psychology. Your parents refusing to care about your well-being kind of makes you want to get home before you can get into any mischief.

They've programmed you weird, and now you're into some strange shit.

\--

You get home and it's the usual. Your dad doesn't give a fuck, just stares at the television like a zombie, or someone under mind control. You drop your bag in the hallway next to the door and head into the kitchen, because you're starving and the food at the hospital tastes worse than the food at school.

You say, "Hey, Pop," on your way past the living room, but he doesn't nod, or jut his chin, or wave, or any of the above, so you mutter a curse under your breath; something along the lines of _stupid cunt_ , or _fucking asswipe_ , or _dumbass clown shit_. Yeah, you've been getting creative with the nicknames lately.

Your dad lost his job a few months ago. It really hit him hard, because he loved that job. Like, a lot. Interview after interview was a new disaster to add to the high pile of disasters.

After awhile, he stopped trying, because your mom has a job good enough to keep us all alive, so why even bother, right? Not when he can get fat and lazy on the couch all day, watch stupid reality shows about country bumpkins, and eat a shitload of junk food whenever possible.

Yeah. This is your life.

\--

Your favorite teacher at Cedarbrook High School is Mr. Jenkins. He's a philosophical genius, and he wears a toga to school whenever the administration's not doing checkups on the very strict curriculum.

He's mellow and laid back, and also a total pothead. You've seen the stuff in the draws behind his desk, and he knows it, too. But you're his favorite student, so you suppose he doesn't really give a fuck.

Puck doesn't give a fuck either, but he does care about the class, which isn't much of a surprise. He likes school. He likes homework and challenging himself and smoking pot with your favorite teacher. You suppose there's no point in saying Mr. Jenkins is Puck's favorite teacher, too.

You're zoned out as Mr. Jenkins drones on and on and on about Plato, the philosopher who should've been king, because you've got another one of those migraines. They've been bothering you for almost a year now, but they always pass sooner or later, so you don't bother seeing a doctor about it. Would just be a waste of money.

Puck is enraptured by the lesson. You can tell by the way his pencil quickly scratches across his notebook as he jots down every word Mr. Jenkins spits out. _Literally_ spits. Say it, don't spray it, will you, Mr. J? That's why you always make a habit of sitting in the back row. Better view from here anyway.

After class, you hurriedly pack up your stuff and catch up to Puck as he's walking down the hallway. "What's your quote?" you ask, coming up beside him.

Puck smiles, just barely, but then wipes it clean. "What makes you think I'm actually doing this stupid essay?"

You love the way he tries to act like a moron. "Not only do we need it to graduate, but I know you love that class," you point out, and when Puck fails to respond, you know you've got him. Hook, line, sinker. "So, I'm gonna ask again; what's your quote?"

He rolls his eyes, but you know he's not actually annoyed with you. It would take a whole lot to make him hate you, which he never will. He kind of feels the opposite when it comes to you. Told you himself sophomore year.

"The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing," he recites, and then shrugs a shoulder like it's no big deal, because he _thinks_ he's a mysterious bad boy, and there's no way he should actually know this, but Puck isn't as bad as he likes to pretend.

You quirk an eyebrow and shrug your book bag higher on your shoulder. Damn textbooks are gonna give you spinal stenosis. "Do you really believe that?" you ask, because your quote is kind of the opposite.

"Doesn't matter whether I believe it or not," Puck says, stopping short at his locker, and he laughs when you almost bump into him from behind. He gives you this look, and you know he's still in love with you even after what happened. He'll always love you no matter what you do, including driving his best friend away.

\--

You're in Ana's room trying to start your essay. You hardly ever look up at her, because she's too depressing to see. There are dark circles around her eyes, her skin is so, so pale, and her small body is so thin you're sure she'd shatter into a million pieces if someone tapped her hard enough.

The worst part of starting an essay is starting an essay. You never know how to open, or bring up the topic, or create your thesis. It's been a whole damn year, and you're still not even sure what a thesis _is_.

Huffing in frustration, you scratch out another line of complete and utter bullshit-worthy essay writing; _Aristotle was a huge cheater who made up a bunch of false statements about life that could have all been avoided if he just looked with his eyes and not with his fucking soul._

Yeah, you scratch that out a couple of times with a ballpoint pen, but when you can still see the words through your scribbles, you just end up scrapping the entire page.

Just as you're opening up to a fresh, new page in your notebook, there's a knock on the door. You smirk because you think it's Rhonda here to make a funny joke and save you from yourself, but the smirk falls from your face when you see this skinny, tall boy in these wrinkled blue scrubs standing in the doorway.

"Um. Hey," he says, smiling stupidly.

You skip the pleasantries. This essay isn't going to write itself. "What d'you want?"

"I-I'm the new volunteer," Volunteer Boy stammers, shifting from side to side before fully entering the room. "Don't mind me. I'm just here to take Ana's blood pressure."

"You're allowed to do that?" you ask curiously, setting down your pen. "You know, being a volunteer and all?"

He smirks, and then says, "Rhonda said so," and that's all you need to hear. What Rhonda says, goes, as far as you're concerned. You go back to writing your essay as Volunteer Boy messes around with a bunch of medical instruments. Your pen has barely even touched the page when you hear, "So, what happened to her?"

You peek up and let out a breath of air. "Why don't you check her charts and tell _me_ , smart guy?"

His lips quirk to the side in amusement. "Sure, I can easily read her chart and see what's wrong with her medically, but I like to know the patients back—"

You're tired of listening to his voice, so you click your pen and interrupt with, "Ana and three friends were coming home from a party at like two in the morning when the driver just drove off the road."

You remember hearing the talk at school. Rumors circulated for months about what happened, but you don't think they ever got the full story. Most of the stories were made-up tales anyway, which you only found extremely rude and insensitive.

"Some people say he was intoxicated, but others think he was trying to commit suicide." You shrug, not because you don't care, but because it never really concerned you in the first place. Sure, what happened is sad and all, but now it seems as though no one even remembers her. Big news is only news when it’s new. "Anyway, the driver died on impact, the two others lived with sustainable injuries, but Ana suffered a major brain contusion."

Rhonda filled in the blanks of what the kids at school didn't already know about the situation. Whenever someone brings up the accident, she always gets super emotional, which is probably why she sent Volunteer Boy in today instead of taking Ana's blood pressure herself.

You doodle out a picture of a brain that looks more like a piece of chewed gum, adding, "She's basically just a vegetable now, but her mother refuses to pull the plug."

Volunteer Boy nods as he wraps the cuff around Ana's thin arm. "Strong faith?" he asks.

"Unhealthy denial. Sad, huh?"

"Understatement of the century," Volunteer Boy mumbles under his breath. He looks unsettled at the story, but whatever. If this dude wants to be a doctor one day, he's going to have to deal with way worse stories than this. "What about the father?" Volunteer Boy asks, peeking up at you. "Where's he?"

This dude sure is nosy. "I'm not even sure if she has a father, honestly," you say, tapping your pen against your notebook. You still haven't written anything since scrapping the last piece of shit you wrote down. Huffing out a sigh, you stand up from your seat in the corner and grab your book bag. "But if she does, he never makes it a priority to come visit her."

Frowning, Volunteer Boy unties the cuff from around Ana's frail arm and gently rests it back down beside her. "How long's it been?"

"Since her accident?" you ask needlessly, and then wait for him to nod. "Almost a year, according to Rhonda."

He takes this in with a blustering exhale and places his hands on his hips as he looks down at her. "Wow. That's a long time."

"Way too long." You look down at her as well and shake your head. Sure is a shame what happened, you think, before slinging your bag over your shoulders. "The mom really needs to let go," you murmur, heading towards the doorway. "If it was my daughter, I would have set her free months ago, but you know. S'not my call."

\--

You stop short as soon as you pass through the sliding glass doors outside of the hospital. She's right there. _Right there_. With bated breath, you watch and watch as she paces in front of an old wooden bench.

Her hair is short and darker than you remember. It seems to get darker and darker every day. _She_ seems to get darker and darker every day. She's wearing fingerless gloves and dirty white converses, and you smile to yourself as you hesitantly approach, because that's the Quinn you remember. Maybe it's not too late to get her back. To save her from herself.

"Q?" you say, coming up beside her. It seems your footsteps are a lot quieter than you thought, because she startles and takes a big step away from you when she hears your voice. "What are you doin' here?" you wonder, smiling crookedly. "Lookin' for me?"

She rubs her hands together and exhales a cloud of condensation. "No, actually," she says, shaking her head with just the hint of a smile. You live off of that smile. "If I wanted to find you, you'd know it."

You nod, unsure of how to respond to a statement like that. "Can we talk?"

"No," she says, almost before you even get your question out. "I'm not...I'm just not ready yet."

Honestly, you thought she'd be over it by now. Everyone screws up now and then, everyone puts their foot in their mouth, and everyone makes mistakes. You've made plenty, and so has she.

Puck's forgiven you, so why can't she? It's not entirely your fault Sam ran off the way he did. Like a coward. They kept the secret just as you did. They lied to him just as you did. He deserved to know, but when you told him, he totally went ballistic and left. Not your fault. It's no one's fault.

Quinn really needs to get over it, but she says, "I have to go," and untucks her skateboard from under her arm, and totally just leaves you alone by the old wooden bench outside of Cedarbrook Hospital.

Is it just you, or did it just get colder out here?

\--

Mr. Jenkins finds great, great amusement in his students arguing over insanely irrelevant topics. For instance; is Puck's orange your orange, or is your purple his orange, and if his purple is your orange, is his orange your purple?

It's a total mind fuck, yet it seems you and Puck are the only two in the entire class who even give a damn. Everyone else is either sleeping, finishing off homework for another class, or texting someone in another classroom (or the same classroom, depending on how bored they are).

Anyway, your western philosophy class is the last period of the day, so you walk Puck to his locker, and in exchange, he offers to walk you home.

You don't want to lead him on, because the two of you have been down that crazy lane before, but you accept anyway, because you've been a little lonely lately, because your mom and dad never talk to you, because you're a teenager and apparently they don't know how to talk to teenagers. If you didn't know any better, you'd think they were afraid of them (which basically means they're afraid of you by association).

"So, you'll never guess who I saw at the hospital yesterday," you singsong, swinging your arms back and forth anxiously.

Puck gives you a look and says, "Quinn Fabray."

"How'd you know?" You pause in the middle of the sidewalk and look him up and down. Puck's not smirking, which means he isn't pleased with himself, which means he's either angry or upset.

But that's no surprise. The subject of Quinn has never really been much of a neutral topic for the both of you, considering how he feels about you (as well as what the two of you did to his best friend).

"She knows someone who's admitted, or something," he says, shrugging a shoulder, and then walks past you.

You hesitate a moment before jogging to catch up. "You've been talking to her?"

"Not really."

"Not really?" There's not an eye roll big enough to express your annoyance. "How would you even know that if—"

"She's in my computer animation class, okay?" Puck scratches the side of his head awkwardly, and then shrugs again, because he's trying to play off the act of a mysterious bad boy. Which he is not. At all. "Ever since you guys stopped talking, she's been acting out, and I guess she just needs someone to talk to. She's a voice. I'm an ear. That's all."

You're not sure how you feel about this. Puck chose your side, not hers, so why is he offering her his goddamn ear? Before you get the chance to voice your reservations aloud, Puck is already heading down the street again. Sighing, you shrug your bag up higher on your shoulders and watch him walk away for a moment.

Sometimes, you do believe in that bad boy image he tries to exuberate. With that leather jacket and those huge combat books, he does look incredibly lonely sometimes. Maybe Quinn's more than just a voice to his ear, and maybe you should learn to get over it. After all, it is your fault his best friend is gone.

Well, kind of.

\--

Rhonda's checking Jane Doe's vitals when you arrive for your visit on Thursday after school. They both smile as you sit down in the corner and take out your notebook, and then they ask you the normal questions they ask everyday; the ones about school, and boyfriends (which you scoff incredulously at), and prom (which you'll never be caught dead at), and college (which is actually something you're willing to talk about).

Jane Doe is a woman in her early thirties with a serious case of amnesia. Story is she fell eighteen stories, cracked her skull on the concrete after rolling off an awning, and then fucking survived. It's one of those stories you'd totally see on the news, except this one wasn't on the news, because nothing in Cedarbrook, Ohio ever gets put into the news.

She's optimistic, which isn't something you're used to seeing in this hospital, but her good attitude really lifts your spirits. Lately, you've been slightly out of it. Your mood is all over the place, your headaches attack whenever the fuck they feel like it, and your dad is still sitting on the couch. You honestly can't remember the last time you saw him vertical, and you honestly can't remember the last time you saw your mom, but whatever.

After doing her hourly checkup on Jane Doe, Rhonda rounds the bed and asks how your essay is coming along.

"Swimmingly," you say with a smile.

You haven't even started it yet.

\--

Mr. Jenkins stops you after class on Friday, and says, "You've seemed really unfocused lately, Santana. Are you alright?"

Your left temple throbs, and you feel as if you're about to pass out. "Yeah, I'm fine," you say, waving him off as you collect your things.

Cocking an eyebrow, Mr. Jenkins doesn't look too convinced as he slaps his chalkboard erasers together. "You sure you don't wanna see the nurse?" he asks, just in case, because you're his favorite student, and it wouldn't exactly be in his best interest if you passed out right here on the floor.

But as you lied before, you're absolutely fine. "No, I'm good, Mr. J," you murmur, and then you leave his room before he offers you some weed to help with the pain.

\--

Three hours until the weekend. Good. You need the rest. This week has kicked your fucking ass.

The courtyard is busy today. Students, mostly underclassmen, run around like they're missing their fucking heads or something, and you watch them, extremely bored and maybe a little bit lonely.

You don't eat lunch, because you're too focused on stealing glances at Quinn from across the courtyard as you pretend to write your essay. She's laughing with some of her new friends, and it makes your heart hurt more than you ever thought it could.

That odd girl with the green hair sitting next to her? Yeah, that used to be you. Sort of. You used to be the only one who could make her laugh (other than Sam). You used to be the only one who got to touch her (other than Sam). You used to be the only one who knew her deep, dark secrets. (Nope. No Sam this time around. The secrets were only for you.)

But now she's moved on from you, and it kind of breaks your heart just thinking about it, never mind watching it happen right in front of your eyes.

A heavy body plops down beside you, and you don't even have to side-eye the person to know it's Puck. Not like anyone else in this stupid school ever talks to you. "You still love her," he says without preamble, and you scoff, because duh.

"Of course I do," you mumble, chewing on the side of your pencil. Okay. Maybe you _are_ a little hungry.

Puck makes this unrecognizable noise under his breath. "That's dangerous territory right there, S," he says, looking off into the same direction as you. Right at Quinn. You're actually surprised she hasn't felt your probing gaze on her yet. Your eyes are probably burning a hole in the back of her head by now.

"She's always been dangerous territory," you point out, shrugging a shoulder. "Didn't stop me before."

"Yeah, but it's obviously stopping _her_ this time."

You sigh. You don't really want to hear this right now. You came out here into the courtyard for three reasons. One; fresh air. Two; to finish your essay. Three; to stare at Quinn.

"Why's that?" you scoff, scribbling out a doodle of an Android in your notebook. It's the only thing you know how to draw other than a brain (chewed gum). "Because Sam's gone?"

"She _did_ cheat on him," Puck says needlessly. "With you," he adds needlessly. "Kind of hard to stick around after that."

Licking your lips, you shade in the bottom of your Android's brain and then smirk at your work. If becoming a philosopher doesn't work out the way you plan, you should totally try your hand at art.

"Way to make me feel guilty, Puck."

"How you feel about the situation is warranted," he says, patting you on the back, but when you growl, he quickly retracts his hand. Silence follows your animal sounds, but eventually Puck lets out a sigh and admits, "I feel the same way sometimes. But maybe you should look at things from his point of view. He was hurt, so he left. There was no choice in the matter."

Whatever. "We've all been hurt before."

Puck lolls his head back and forth in thought. "Yeah," he drawls, screwing his face up into a look of uncertainty. "But not like that."

\--

Volunteer Boy is watching the baseball game on the television in Ana's room when you come in early Saturday morning. He at least has the decency to look apologetic, but not enough to turn off the television. You suppose it doesn't matter anyway. S'not like the sounds will disturb her or anything.

His thumb settles over the red button on the remote, but you just shrug your shoulders, because you kind of want to see if the Yankees are going to pull off this win. 

Ana's heart monitor beep, beep, beeps as the two of you sit in mostly silence. Volunteer Boy has the television turned down, thankfully, which makes it easier for you to work on your essay. Last night, you got three pages written. Nine more to go.

"So," you murmur, glancing up at Volunteer Boy as he moves towards Ana's bedside to straighten out the tubes around her nose. "What's your story?"

"My story?" he repeats, and you nod your head. Volunteer Boy scratches at his brow, as if this is the hardest question he's ever been faced with. "Well, I don't know," he says, pulling Ana's blanket up to her shoulders. "Don't have much of a story, I guess."

"Oh, c'mon," you scoff, because that's just stupid. "Everyone's gotta story to tell."

"Really? Then what's yours?"

You think about this. You think about lying and coming up with someone stupid, like how you're this super genius who escaped from a laboratory in Fresno where they were forcing you into doing experiments on platypus. But instead—since you don't really have the energy for all of that make-believe shit today—you decide to be cynically truthful.

"Hmm, let's see," you mumble in faux thought, tapping your pencil against your leg. "I fell in love with my best friend, helped her cheat on her boyfriend, but when she didn't love me the way she loved Sam, I told him about the two of us, so he broke up with her and left. Now, she won't even look at me."

Volunteer Boy looks perplexed at first, but then nods his head in understanding. You doubt he understands though. "Whoa," he sighs, chuckling dryly. "That's some story."

"You could say that." You scratch your eraser against the blank sheet of paper in your notebook, but only so your hands have something to do. "And that's not even the half of it," you continue, rolling your eyes. "Sam's best friend is in love with me, or something, but I'm, you know, gay, which just causes even more unnecessary drama."

Pursing his lips, Volunteer Boy carefully smoothes back a curl of Ana's hair. You watch the action with soft eyes, moved by how attached he's become to both Ana and her story.

Yeah, some of these people can really get to you.

"I'm sure that's not true, though," he eventually speaks up, eyeing you with sincerity. This kid is so sincere you're about to break out into hives.

"What?" you mutter.

"Her not loving you," he explains, sitting down on the edge of Ana's mattress. Wringing his fingers together tightly, Volunteer Boy tries his best to smile, and then says, "I'm sure she wouldn't have put her relationship on the line if she didn't return your feelings."

You've gone back to scratching your eraser against nothing. "Sure. I guess."

\--

By Tuesday night, you've got about half of your essay written. You're on your laptop at your desk when you hear your mom come in from work. You can't really remember the last time you saw your mom since she's always out, probably at business meetings, or travelling around Ohio, doing whatever it is she does in her line of work.

You never ask, because it seems kind of complicated, and you don't really want to bother her anyway. You already seem to be enough of a nuisance to your father. The last thing you need is them both purposefully neglecting you.

The television is on downstairs, and your dad is watching Duck Dynasty, but the volume is just low enough for you to hear the conversation between your mom and dad. You stay at your desk and listen. It goes a little something like this;

 **Mom** : "All you do is sit around the house and do nothing. ( _tired sigh_ ) How about helping me out?"

 **Pop** : ( _whining_ ) "I'm doing the best that I can."

 **Mom** : "No, no, you're not. You don't even try. You never leave the house. You never leave that goddamned couch." ( _annoyed, flustered, irritated, frustrated_ ) I need your help, Miguel. _We_ need you."

 **Pop** : "We?" ( _bitter chuckle_ ) "God, this is... You don't get it, Isabel. There is no _we_ anymore. I'm just trying to deal with what I lost. That's what I'm _doing_ , Izzy."

 **Mom** : "No. No, what you're doing is sitting on your ass and waiting for me to take care of everything. ( _beat_ ) Well, I-I can't do this anymore."

 **Pop** : ( _long pause_ ) "What d'you mean?"

You don't hear the answer to his question, just these loud footsteps pounding up the steps. You're pretending to do your homework when your mom passes your room in a blur, and then five seconds later, a door slams.

Loudly.

And you're left to wonder whether it was the front door, or your parent's bedroom door.

\--

It breaks your heart. _She_ breaks your heart. Every time you see her, another part of your heart breaks off. You're running out of love for everything else in this world, because all of it eventually goes to Quinn anyway.

She's one of those haunting beauties. She doesn't even have to try. Everything about her is so graceful and charming and loveable. Not like a puppy, though. She's loveable and attractive in the way that's dangerous.

You know you shouldn't feel the way you feel about her, but all you can see is your best friend when you look at her.

You see the girl you met in the sixth grade. You see her bright, heavy eyes; her short, blonde hair; her tight-lipped smile. You see her frumpy clothes, colorful beanies, and always, always, her dirty white converses. She's gotten a lot darker ever since Sam broke up with her, but she's still your Quinn.

She was your Quinn way before she was ever Sam's Quinn, so you know she's still somewhere in there, and no matter how deeply rooted she is, you'll find her again.

"Santana," you hear, and you turn your head, only to bang it on the door of your locker.

Puck laughs, but your cheeks are flaming, because Quinn's looking at you from across the hall with these concerned eyes. You stare at her for a long moment with your hand against your head as it throbs like a drum in a marching band.

Your heart throbs the same dull pattern until she turns away and walks down the hallway with one of her new, cryptic friends. Curse her new, cryptic friends.

Your eyes trail up her legs to that curvy ass of hers as she strolls away with her skateboard tucked under her arm. God, you'll never get over her, so why even try?

You whirl around, and before Puck can even open his mouth to speak, you cut him off with, "Where've you been? You weren't in class today."

Darting his eyes sideways, Puck goes, "Nowhere important."

"O...kay," you drawl, rolling your eyes. "What a vague response that was. You should know now that if anyone in this school ever suddenly goes missing, you're gonna be the first person on my suspect list."

Despite himself, Puck actually chuckles at that, and then says, "I have counseling every Tuesday morning, okay? Nightmares is all."

"Nightmares? About what?"

"Nothing important," he stresses, sounding extremely uncomfortable, so you decide to drop it.

It could be a family thing he's going through, and you understand that all too well, so you raise your hands in defense and say, "Alright. Fine. I'll back off." Puck sighs in relief, so you think this is the perfect opportunity to tell him, "I need you to talk to Quinn for me."

Puck's frown drops even further. "Sorry, S. No can do."

You look at him like he's stupid, because right now he's really acting like it. "And why the fuck not?"

"When Quinn wants to talk, she'll talk," Puck explains so calmly you're just itching to punch him in the jaw. No one can make you as angry as Puck and Quinn, the two people you actually care about the most. He places a hand on your shoulder, but you shrug him off. "She wouldn't listen anyway. Sorry, but you can't jump the gun on this one, champ."

You hate it whenever Puck calls you that, so you shove past him without a word and flip him off from behind.

Asshole.

\--

As the warm part of spring sets in, a switch in your brain turns on, and suddenly you're writing page after page about philosophies, reasons for your complex thesis on why there's no point in knowing, and disproving Aristotle on his beliefs about human nature, and you owe it all to Jane Doe.

Last week, when you passed her room, you made it a point to step in and see how she was doing. Her amnesia hasn't yet subsided, and there's still some swelling in her brain, but she's so hopeful it makes your chest not hurt as badly as it usually does when coming to Cedarbrook Hospital. 

Leaning up against the doorframe—because you don't want to make this visit too long since it's already getting late—you ask her the question that's been on your mind for a few days now; "If you could start all over and be anyone in the world, who would you be?"

Jane Doe gives you this crooked grin—and if you weren't such a baby compared to her, you'd tell her how attractive you think she is, but you _are_ like a baby to her, so you don't say a word—and then she says, "I'd probably to be a counselor for kids. I don't know if it's because of what I'm going through, but not knowing who you are isn't just a symptom of amnesia. It's a symptom of growing up as well."

That one answer has you rethinking your entire thesis. You shift restlessly in the doorway, go from leaning against the doorframe on your left shoulder to your right as you awkwardly switch positions. "Do you think your memory will ever return?"

"I don't know," Jane says, pursing her lips in thought. She turns to gaze out the window beside her bedside and lets out a weary exhale.

You peer over her to look outside too. The grass is starting to turn light green again. The flowers in the courtyard are blooming reds, purples, and blues. The leaves on the trees are blowing in the warm weather of mid-spring. It's a new beginning. That's what it looks like to you, at least. You wonder if Jane Doe sees the same thing.

"Sometimes I hope my memory won't return," she says honestly, tugging anxiously on a loose strand hanging off of her hospital gown. "Truthfully, I'm afraid to find out the person I was before. What if I was self-centered? Cruel? Greedy?" She shakes her head, as if impossible to even consider. "I'd rather pretend I was a good person then actually discover I wasn't."

\--

Ever since your parents had that fight, your mom hasn't been home. It's been a whole week, and you're starting to worry, which you hardly ever do.

After stuffing your mouth with a slice of bread as you walk through the kitchen, you make your way upstairs, not even bothering to greet your dad. He doesn't greet you either, so whatever. His loss. You'd be a great daughter if only he'd get off of that stupid couch and make an effort in talking to you.

Once you reach the top of the steps, you can't help but curiously eye your parent's bedroom door. You stare at it for a good ten seconds before taking a deep breath and venturing down the hallway. The first thing you check when you enter the room is your mother's closet.

Like you originally thought—but didn't actually want to believe—it's mostly empty, just a few shirts and clothes your mother doesn't really wear anymore along with a couple of dangling wired hangers.

You try not to react, or panic. But eventually the uncertainty gets to you as you inhale a hitched breath of air and race down the stairs. "Where's Mom?" you ask from the bottom of the steps.

Your dad doesn't even turn his eyes away from the television at your tone of accusation. "She left," he informs you, lifting a shoulder.

Your eyes burn and your voice cracks when you ask, "What do you mean _she left_?"

"Figure she's done with my shit," he mutters, scratching the side of his shaggy beard.

Your hold on the banister tightens so hard your fingertips turn white. A strike of pain shoots through your head, and you force yourself to sit down on the bottom step.

Your father's eyes find you, finally, and there is actually emotion in them when he whispers, "Don't worry though. She'll always be here for you. Always is, unlike dear old dad."

And then, he turns his attention back to his favorite child. The television set.

\--

Your head feels like a hollow drum that's been beaten to the point of no return as you venture out of the school after a long day of stupid classes, annoying teachers, and pointless loads of work.

All you want to do is go home and lie down until the sky breaks apart, so you can just die along with everyone else in this world. Yeah, morbid thoughts tend to slip into your psyche on days like these.

You're trying your best to make it to graduation—you've actually been looking forward to escaping to college, leaving all of your shit behind—but Quinn not talking to you, and your mom skipping out on you and your father, and Puck being an asshole is making that day feel a lot farther away than it really is.

You're an ant among giants as you curl in on yourself and sludge out of the school. Loud laughter, soft murmurs, and ruckus chatter fill your bleeding eardrums. It feels like your head is about to implode, so you shuffle as far away from school grounds as possible.

You can't take it anymore. You need to get away. Despite your killer migraine, you pick up speed and run down the middle of the street. You're running so fast and so freely that you think you might even pass Quinn riding along the sidewalk on her skateboard. You'd stop—any other day you'd stop—but if you don't get home now, you just might pass out.

\--

You miss five days of school. Mr. Jenkins comes by on the third to make sure you're okay. He also drops off a bag of weed. Puck doesn't come at all, and neither does Quinn, of course.

On the fourth day, your father actually comes into your room to check up on you. You're surprised, but you don't let it show. You hide how astounded you are by his presence in your room. The fact is his concern shouldn't even be a surprise. This kind of initiative as a father should be like second nature to him. That's how it goes on Full House, anyway.

He's off the couch. Finally. And all it took was you almost passing out from an extreme migraine. He suggests you go to the doctor, but he doesn't offer to take you, so you wave him off and tell him not to worry about it. But he still looks worried as he leaves your room and heads back down the stairs.

Hmm. Maybe he's been watching Full House too.

\--

You skip another day of school. That's six days in total. You didn't think your mental health could've handled it, so you went to the hospital instead. It's really the day you're supposed to visit Ana, but her crazy mom is in there, so you make a swift detour into Linden's room and offer to play a game of chess with him, even though you both suck at it.

Throughout the visit, he only forgets who you are five times, which is a real change from his usual twenty times.

"Who're you again?" he asks, squinting over his round reading glasses.

"Santana," you say.

Fifteen minutes later, "What's your name, darling?"

"Madonna," you say.

"Ah, of course," he says, and then, about twenty minutes later, "I'm sorry, but you are..."

"Aretha Franklin," you say, and maybe it's a little cruel to mess with him like this, but it's not like he'll remember anyway.

You hear a quiet snicker from the doorway and turn around to find Volunteer Boy standing behind you. "Who're you gonna be next?" he asks, smiling in amusement. "Mariah Carey?"

"I was thinking more Diana Ross, but Mariah's not a bad suggestion." You shrug a shoulder and slide your pawn across the board. "Actually, I'm surprised you even know who that is, white boy."

He doesn't take offense, just smiles goofily as he enters the room to take Linden's blood pressure. "So, I thought about what you said."

"What'd I say?" you ask, because you say a lot of things; he can't possibly expect you to remember every single thing that comes out of your mouth.

"You know..." Volunteer Boy raises an eyebrow as he straps the gray cuff around Linden's boney bicep. "That thing about everyone having a story..."

You said that at least a month ago. Kid's got a good memory, unlike most of the people in this wing of the hospital. "Oh, right," you murmur, poking out your tongue in concentration as you slide your bishop along the board and knock over Linden's rookie. "Figure it out yet?"

Volunteer Boy shakes his head. "Not exactly. I know what happened in my life, but I just can't seem to put the pieces together to form a story," he explains, pressing a few buttons on the machine beside Linden's bed. "So much has happened, but at the same time, nothing meaningful happened either."

"Don't say nothing's happened to you. I'm sure there's something."

"Yeah?"

You tuck your legs underneath you and shrug. "Well, sure. My friend, Sam, always used to say, 'Don't give up until there's no way down.'" You didn't understand what it meant when he said it, and you still don't really know what it means, but it has the phrase _don't give up_ in it, so you suppose it's motivational enough.

Volunteer Boy tilts his head. "Sam," he murmurs thoughtfully. "The one who's girlfriend you stole?"

This kid's memory is so good it's almost scary. "I didn't steal her from him," you huff, pushing Linden's hand away from the board when he tries to move one of your pieces. He grumbles unhappily. "If so, she'd be mine right now."

"Why _isn't_ she yours?" he asks, quirking his lips to the side.

"She feels guilty for what she did to him."

"And you don't?"

Stupidest question you've ever heard. "Every. Damn. Day. We were _all_ friends. I didn't mean to fall in love with his girl, but she was my best friend," you exasperate, and then lower your voice to say, "I-I loved her first."

There's nothing but honest curiosity in Volunteer Boy's eyes as he asks, "And that gave you the right?"

"There's no right or wrong in that type of situation. I'd talk to Sam every day and feel so guilty for sleeping with his girlfriend. But when I was with Quinn, all of that just faded away," you tell him, smiling a little sadly at the memory. "Sam was a great guy, and it sucks that he felt the need to leave after what happened. I'll never stop being sorry for what I did to him and how I ruined his relationship. I just wish I could tell him that."

\--

You eat dinner on the couch beside your father for the first time in over a year. The other day, he made an attempt at being a father again, so you figure the least you can do is take an equal step forward and be a daughter again.

Your dad shifts on the couch, just an inch closer to where you're sitting, but he doesn't take his eyes off of the television. "We used to sit here and watch the game all the time when you were younger," he mentions, jutting his chin at the Yankee's game playing on the flatscreen in front of you. You nod silently as he asks, "W-what happened?"

You want to be honest. You want to tell him that he lost something he really cared about, but instead you say, "I grew up."

"Way too fast," he mumbles, side-eyeing you before casting his line of vision back towards the television when Derek Jeter hits a double. "Sometimes I just want my little girl back."

"I'm not a little girl anymore," you remind him needlessly, tucking your legs into your chest to rest your chin on top of your knees. "But we can still hang out."

Your dad lets out a shaky laugh. He sounds uncomfortable, and you don't blame him. It's been awhile since the two of you talked like this. "Does that mean I have to get off of the couch?" he whispers, sounding almost afraid of your answer.

He's done it before, so you know he can do it again. " _And_ leave the house," you add, because if he's going to go for it, he might as well go for gold.

Jerkily nodding his head, your dad sets his light brown eyes on you, firmly, for the first time in a long time. It looks like he actually sees you again when he says, "Good. I think I'm ready."

\--

You've waited for Quinn to come to you for longer than you originally thought you could hold out. You can't do it anymore. Can't take it anymore. It's almost been a year—a week to the day—since Sam broke up with her and she stopped talking to you.

You're not even looking for her when you find her sitting on the side of a curb with her feet underneath her skulled skateboard. It must be fate; this chance encounter.

You can almost feel it in your bones, feel it in the way she looks at you as you continue to approach, quickly but cautiously, feel it in the location she's sitting and you're standing, almost but no quite face to face.

There are flowers behind her, with burnt out candles and thin frames and notes of love folded up next to them. You look at the haunting memorial for a moment before trailing your eyes back over to _her_.

"Quinn" is all you say at first, wringing your fingers together nervously. She focuses her eyes on your hands and refuses to look up into your eyes. It's almost like she's looking right through you. "Talk to me," you plead. " _Please_ , talk to me."

She shoots up, shaking her head as she sets her skateboard on the ground, but you kick it to the side so that it flips over and lands in the middle of the street. She stares at her skateboard, gabsmacked, before focusing her hazel eyes up at you. Good. That's what you wanted.

But it still makes your heart hurt as you whisper, "Quinn—"

She cuts you off before you can say any more about how much you need her love. "I really can't do this right now," she sighs, bowing her head.

You know it's selfish, but you hope there are tears in her eyes. At least you'd know if she still cares for you. "Then when?"

"When I'm ready."

You don't mean to—you're really trying your best to be patient, after all—but you scoff anyway. "And when will that be?"

"Santana, please."

Your ears burn red in anger. "Please, _what_?"

This is supposed to be give and take, but she's not giving you any room to work with here. You miss her so much, but you know she only misses Sam. You know she blames you for their break up, but the two of you had something real, so you're not going to let go this easily. You're going to fight, even if it hurts.

Quinn looks like she's hurting just as much as you, which could be a good sign, but then all hope is crushed when she starts to walk off towards her skateboard.

You know that as soon as she reaches it, she'll leave you behind, all over again, so you grab her wrist and turn her around. "Wait, Q—"

"Just leave me alone, will you?" Quinn snatches her arm away and eyes you with so much contempt that you kind of want to laugh and cry at the same time.

You do neither. You can't show weakness right now. You can't give her the upper hand. She's had it for too long already. "At least tell me why you're not talking to me," you whisper, eyes glistening with hurt. "We used to be so close—"

"Don't," she says, cutting you off with red, tearful eyes. "You know why. You're the one who told him about us. And then you—goddammit, Santana." Quinn swiftly turns her back on you. She can't show weakness either. "I just can't do this."

This time, as she walks off to grab her skateboard, you let her, but she doesn't immediately flee like you expected of her. Her back is still turned, and you get the odd feeling she's waiting for you. So, you stand behind her, in the middle of the goddamn street, and watch as she scuffs her dirty white converses against the gravel on the ground.

"I need to know," you say, brokenly. "Did you _ever_ love me?"

Her shoulders lift stiffly. "San—"

"No, I _need_ to know."

Quinn finally peeks over her shoulder, and once she sees the tears streaming down your cheeks, something in her expression breaks. Something inside her breaks, too, as she turns towards you and wipes away a stray tear from under your eyes. You can't help but wrap your fingers around her forearm to keep her hand caressing your cheek.

"I can't love you," she says, so easily, so calmly, that it almost sounds like an apology. "Don't you get that, San? It would only make it harder for me to let go."

Your grip on her arm tightens. "Don't let go."

"I have to. I've tried to hold on, but I can't do it anymore...it's too hard." Ducking her head, Quinn blinks tears away. You wish she'd stop fighting away her feelings for you, because you know how she feels. All you need is reassurance; those three simple words. "I miss you, San, I do, but it's hard to even look at you after what happened. Puck gets on me all the time about it, but I'm just not ready."

As the tears continue to fall without preamble, Quinn wipes them away with a soft stroke of her thumb against your cheek. You move in, rest your forehead against hers, and exhale. "Quinn," you whimper, holding her against you with a hand in her short, blonde hair.

"Jesus," Quinn whispers, taking you in. "I miss you so much."

Your face crumbles. "I'm right here," you say, but it feels more like a plea. "Just talk to me. Forgive me."

You know she really doesn't want to, but she does it anyway. She pushes away from you. Space isn't what she needs, but you give it to her anyway. "I can't," she repeats, and you sigh at those words. You're tired of hearing those words. "What part of that don't you understand? Every time I look at you I just get mad all over again, but then I feel guilty for even being mad in the first place."

"Guilty about what? Cheating on Sam?" You're only trying to understand, and that reason seems to be the only one she's holding on to. You reassure her that, "I feel it too, Q. I'm at just as much fault. All of us are. You can't put all the blame on yourself for why he left."

"You don't know how I feel, San. Can you even feel? Are you even listening?"

You try to tell yourself that she doesn't mean to hurt you; that she doesn't mean to make you feel like the devil is driving a knife right through your chest. "I'm trying the best that I can."

"Well, that's just not good enough." Her voice sounds hollow and unaffected once again as she kicks up her skateboard.

You watch as she tucks it under her arm. "Why are you doing this?" you ask her, eyeing the skateboard with disdain. You still love how good she is at skating, but right now it's her only way of escape, so you hate it. You hate the damn skateboard. "Sam's gone. We can finally be together now. No more hiding."

Quinn smiles; one of those sad, haunting smiles full of pity and sympathy. "You don't understand," she says, her voice raspy and full of something you can't quite pin-point. "I want to be with you. So badly. But I can't."

 _I can't._ Those two words are about to really set you off. "Why?" you plead, clutching your hair at your scalp in frustration. "Why can't you, Quinn? Please, tell me, because I'm really having a tough time understanding you right now."

"You wanna know the truth, San?" she asks, and you nod so fast that you're surprised your neck doesn't snap off. "I can't stand to even be in the same room as you without breaking down. Just looking at you like this makes my stomach hurt. I can't even breathe when I think of what happened. My heart feels so empty whenever we're togeth—"

"Stop." You clench your eyes shut, but the burning tears slip through anyway. "Stop talking."

"Oh, so now you don't wanna hear what I have to say when it's not what you want to hear?" Rolling her eyes, she mutters, "Yeah, that's fair."

You're used to her snark. You're used to her tendency to deflect. She was your best friend for years before your tryst even began, after all, so with a steady sigh to reel in your anger, you catch her pretty hazel eyes, and then you say, "I see you, Q. You don't think I do, but I see you."

Quinn doesn't exactly look convinced, but she's always been a curious one, so she goes, "And what do you see?"

"A fragile, lonely girl who has so many regrets she hides from the world by hanging out with the wrong crowd."

Wrong answer. You can tell by the look on her face as she drops her skateboard to the ground, but you don't stop speaking. She needs to hear this just as much as you need to say it.

"You're not you anymore," you whisper, letting the tears fall freely now. "You don't care about school, you vandalize school property, and you shoplift from the corner store downtown."

She's getting colder and colder with every word you say. Her posture stiffens as she steps on to her skateboard with one foot and glues her eyes to her dirty white converses.

"I—" You pause, sigh deeply, and then decide to be honest. "I don't even recognize you anymore, Q."

Finally, Quinn's had enough. "That's the point," she says, and it cuts right through you.

With a shake of her head, she pushes off from the ground, and you clutch your hands into fists at the sound of the wheels of her skateboard rolling through the gravel. You don't watch as she skates off into the sunset. The sight would only make you fall in love with her all over again.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grey's Anatomy shout out! See if you can find it ;)

You go straight to the hospital after Quinn leaves you crying in the middle of the street. Although it's dark out, and you're usually home by sundown, you need some peace and quiet, a moment to not be totally alone but also the space to let yourself think.

From where you're sitting in the corner of Ana's room, you watch closely as her chest rises and falls. It's weird to think that the only thing keeping her alive is that heart monitor she's strapped up to.

Without it, the blood and oxygen would stop being pumped into her heart and brain and other vital organs. You don't scientifically, or rather medically, understand every single thing that's happening to her, but you get the gist from what you learned in bio last year.

Your raw and itchy eyes trail over the vibrant flowers set against the window, the  _Get Well Soon_ cards on the table beside her bed, the deflated smiley face balloons hovering in the opposite corner of the room. You look at pictures of her and the friends you never see posted in frames next to the  _Get Well Soon_ cards.

Your heart clenches at the thought of how only one night—one bad decision to get into that car—changed her life forever, along with the lives of those around her.

Sighing, you shift your eyes back over to Ana's calm expression. You're staring at her so blankly and for so long that you don't even notice the soft footsteps pitter patter into the room.

A voice clears their throat, and you slowly lift your head at the interruption in your thoughts. Ana's mother stands before you. "Um, hello?"

"Hi," you respond, hesitantly because you've heard how crazy she can be when it comes to her daughter.

"Who are you?"

You've never seen her this close up before. Mostly, all you hear is the talk about how vain she's been in regard to her daughter's well-being. You can't really blame her, though; it's hard to let go. You of all people should know that more than anyone.

"Santana," you say, eyeing her carefully. "I just visit some of the patients. Keep 'em company." 

She doesn't look as crazy as you thought she would. She looks like a mother; warm, caring, concerned. Ana was— _is_ —lucky to have such a loving mother looking after her, no matter how in denial she may come across.

"Do you come in here often?" she asks softly, setting her bag down in another chair beside Ana's bed.

You're still wondering why you haven't left yet when you say, "About as much as I visit some of the other patients."

Her eyes turn soft as she gazes down at her daughter. She rakes a hand through Ana's dark, silky hair and leans down to place a kiss on her pale forehead. "I come here every day, yet I don't know if it's because I'm waiting for her to open her eyes, to keep her company, or because I feel guilty for not being there for her before the accident." When you raise an eyebrow in question, she adds, "I used to work a lot. Was hardly ever home."

Kind of reminds you of your own mother. "Damn guilt," you mutter, shaking your head. It's all you say. By the way Ana's mother nods her head in understanding, you know you don't need to say any more on the subject.

"Do you hear the talk too?"

You peek up at her from under your lashes. "Excuse me?"

"The doctors and nurses and volunteers," she lists off with a sigh. "They're always talking. Talking about how I need to let go." She holds your eyes for a spell before looking back at her daughter. Her voice is lower than before when she asks, "Have you heard any of that?"

You think about how you want to approach this question before answering. She's a mother who cares so much about her daughter, and all she wants is a second chance with her. She's waiting on a miracle that everyone—even she—knows is not going to come. Faith. Denial. Hope. Fear. Guilt. So many emotions can cause a person to become stressed, and you don't really want to add to that.

"I hear a bunch of sh...stuff," you say, catching yourself right before cursing in front of both a mother and a comatose patient. Talk about disrespectful. Ana's mother smiles though, almost in recognition, and it makes you wonder if Ana had a sailor's mouth too. "But it's not up to them what you do," you add as reassurance. "Everyone has a different grieving process."

Ana's mother finally takes a load off as she sits down beside her daughter's bed. "Grieving," she murmurs, raveling her fingers to fit against her daughter's hand. "Her father won't even come to the hospital. He's so...he just doesn't like to see her like this, and I guess I can't blame him. It was hard the first couple of months, but eventually I got used to it, which probably isn't as good a thing as I make it sound."

It actually doesn't sound good at all, but you don't say so. You've tried to get used to Quinn ignoring you, hating you, not loving you the way you love her, but all it ended up doing is breaking your heart even more than it already was. 

"Have you ever talked to her?"

You're tugged out of your musings. "Hmm?"

"Do you ever talk to her while you're in here visiting?" Ana's mother inquires, quirking an eyebrow as she strokes the back of Ana's hand.

There are so many colorful bands around her wrist, and the tube in her arm looks so painful that you can't help but wince as you mumble, "No. Could she...would she even be able to hear me?"

She nods, eyes trailing over her daughter's face with watery eyes. "Ana likes it when people talk to her. I can just barely see a smile sometimes if I say something funny," she tells you, sniffling. "The doctors say it's just nerve damage that makes her face twitch, but I like to pretend she can hear me, you know."

Speaking to those who can't hear you? Yeah, you understand that all too well.

\--

Three days later, you turn in your essay to Mr. Jenkins. Behind his desk, he smiles and says, "Don't tell Mr. Puckerman, but you've always been my favorite student." You already knew that, but you listen anyway as he continues. "You're so driven and fearless and willing to take on the world."

You smile, but at the same time you're thinking about how much you're none of what he thinks.

"I'm so proud you're graduating, but then again I'm also extremely sad. Who else is gonna understand my inside jokes about Zeno's Paradoxes?" He chuckles at his own joke, and although you have a headache, you manage to let out a laugh as well, because it's true; no one's going to be able to get this man once you're gone.

"I'm sure you'll find some poor freshman and teach him how to speak Jenkins by the time they're eighteen."

"Yeah, I guess. But it won't be the same. It never will be." The way he says it sounds so complete, so final, leaving not much room to argue. "It's gonna be hard to let go of my favorite student, but I suppose I have no choice in the matter. You need to move on, and so do I."

And with that, he excuses you, promising to have your final grade in by Friday. As you pass through the threshold of your western philosophy classroom door, your left temple throbs.

\--

Puck finds you behind the school, near the football field. The two of you watch in silence as the track and field athletes work out and stretch as they get ready for practice.

You haven't talked to him in almost two weeks. What he said about you and Quinn made you so mad, but now that you think about it—about your feelings, his feelings, Quinn's feelings, and your encounter with her the other day—you begin to understand what he meant.

Seemingly reading your mind, Puck says, "You have to give her time to come to you."

"There's not much time left to give," you mutter, picking the dirt out from under your fingernails. "The year's almost over. Graduation is in a few weeks. Quinn doesn't love me. She loves Sam; the dude who bailed on all of us."

Puck rolls his eyes. "Do you  _really_ believe that?"

"Doesn't matter whether I believe it or not," you say, repeating the same thing Puck told you in the beginning of the semester.

Despite your bitter tone, Puck chuckles dryly, and then says, "You were always such a goddamned smart mouth. And you know what?" He pauses, and you can feel the tension radiating off of him, just waiting to burst. And burst, he does, saying, "I love that about you, Santana."

His words sound so sincere, and they make your throat dry. He knows you can't return his feelings, and that's what frustrates you about his crush on you the most. "Puck—"

"I love everything about you," he continues, holding his face in his large hands. He groans loudly, so loudly you're surprised the track runners don't hear him. Puck looks like even he can't believe it as he murmurs, "My best friend is gone because of you."

Your eyes slide over to him, and you watch with a grimace as he struggles to get his next words out. Not a heartwarming sight.

"I should hate your fucking guts, but Jesus, my head is so screwed up that I just don't know what to feel anymore. Guilt for not telling him sooner, angry at him for ditching us, annoyed that he didn't see it himself, confused about why any of this is even happening," Puck rambles, standing up from his seat on the bleachers to pace.

Your eyes darting back and forth until he stops with his back to you.

"But  _you_ ," he all but whispers, holding on tightly to the railing in front of him. "You're the one who caused all of this when you told him about you and Quinn. I'm supposed to hate you, but I can't. It should be hard for me to talk to you, like it is for Quinn, but it's not. I've always been able to talk to you."

He sighs, sounding exhausted with himself and life and you and the entire world. You're exhausted too, more than you think an eighteen year old should be.

"It's your smile, your laughter," he says, shaking his head. "But when you stopped doing that, I did too, because all I want is you."

You don't say it to upset him. You only say it because it's true. "I'm sorry, Puck, but...all want is Quinn."

The hurt in Puck's eyes is so deep when he turns to look at you that it almost makes you wish you can take those last words back. Almost. "Why?" Puck asks, his voice soft and unsteady. "Why do you want her so fucking badly?"

"She's..." you trail off, standing up from the bleachers to stand beside him. "I love her. I've always had."

Puck's nostrils flare. "Yeah, well, that girl is selfish and greedy," he tells you, biting down hard on his bottom lip. "She wanted both you and Sam, but now she's torn up about it because things didn't exactly go her way."

"If she wanted me, she could have had me, but obviously Quinn didn't love me the way she loved—"

"Of course she loved you, San!" Puck exasperates, and this time, a few track runners do look in your direction. He ignores their probing glances and adds, " _Still_ loves you. You're beautiful, and—and such a good person. Sam was too. But Quinn wasn't the only one who lost somebody. I lost you guys as well. We  _all_ did."

"Goddammit, Puck. Stop talking in circles," you sigh, eyes glued to his sad expression. "You haven't lost me, and who's  _we_?"

"You don't get it, Santana," he murmurs, backing away from you with a slow shake of his head. "You just don't get it, but you will soon enough."

\--

Your dad leaves the house on a Monday. He comes home with a brand new tie and matching socks. You give him a smile and say, "Who're you trying to impress, mister man?"

"My future boss," he says, flipping his sneakers off to try on his new socks.

By the time Thursday rolls around, your dad goes on a job interview.

"It went well," he says after coming home dressed all professional in a suit and tie.

Two days later, your mom comes back home. You listen as her and your father make up from where you're cooking dinner in the kitchen.

 **Pop** : "I'm sorry for being so unavailable lately. You're gonna see a change in me. I promise, honey."

 **Mom** : "Really? ( _hopeful_ ) You'll be here for the  _both_ of us?"

 **Pop** : "I'll be here until the end. I vowed to be around for the highs and the lows. It's been very low for a long time, but maybe...maybe if we  _both_ believe and pray, things will change."

 **Mom** : ( _beat_ ) "I'm sorry, too, Miguel. For leaving."

 **Pop** : "Don't be. I understand why you did it. I'm just...I'm trying my best to deal with everything. It's not easy, and you have to know how sorry I am for putting all of this on your shoulders."

There's silence after that, and like a nosy little kid, you peek your head through the doorway to find your parents hugging tightly in the living room. Your heart blooms at the sight. Maybe love is still possible, even after heartbreak.

\--

You get your paper back; A+

It may sound egotistical, but you're not really surprised. You worked your fucking ass off on this essay. Of course you deserved an A in the form of a plus.

Puck sneaks up behind you at your locker with an A+ of his own. It's been awkward between the two of you for awhile, but he's sorry and you're sorry, and for now that's enough. "Guess it wasn't all about being right or wrong," he says, leaning up against the locker beside yours.

You shrug. Nothing's ever black or white when it comes to Mr. Jenkins anyway, so this is basically expected. "When it comes to philosophy, anything goes," you say, shutting your locker.

As you head down the hallway together, you catch Quinn at her locker. "Such is life," Puck says, and you can't help but nod in agreement as your eyes soften at your beloved's expression.

She looks like your Quinn. Eyes bright, clothes frumpy, converses dirty, hair a hot mess. She's always been your Quinn, and she always will be, no matter where you go or what happens to you.

You smile in passing, and she smiles back. It sets your soul on fire. May seem cliché, yeah, but clichés make the best love stories, so why not?

"My nightmares..." Puck ventures suddenly, uncomfortably. Shrugging your bag higher on your shoulder, you look at him carefully and wait for him to continue. "You were in them. But after I got everything off my chest the other day, they just, well...stopped."

You're not sure if this is where you congratulate him. Surprisingly, you don't really feel offended by his words; you're just happy he's doing better. That's all that matters to you in the end.

You slowly come to a stop at the end of the hallway and face Puck head on. "What were they about?"

Frowning, he tucks his hands deep into his pockets. "You. Flying away. Me. Trying to catch you. But failing every time."

\--

As the school year comes to an end and you submit your enrollment fee to NYU, you make it a priority to visit the brain injured patients of Cedarbrook Hospital one last time.

Jane Doe gave herself a new name; Mary Stevenson. Once she gets her life together, she's going to be a guidance counselor. You give her a hug and tell her that you've always found her attractive. Why not, right? Might as well get everything you feel off your chest before heading off for good.

She blushes at your admission. "You're...cute."

You already knew that, but you smile anyway, and then say, "Thanks," because not only are you cute; you're also polite.

Next, you head down the corridor for Linden's room. You're confused to find it empty. The blue linens on his bed are gone. The blinds are shut tight. His chessboard has disappeared. You panic for a moment before practically racing down the hallway to the nurse's station.

Rhonda gives you one of those sad looks, and your heart feels like a sandbag, until she says the words, "His son came in yesterday to take Linden to the old folk's home off of Kilmer Street."

You exhale so loud it feels like your ribs are about to crack. You're bummed you didn't get to say goodbye, and you're upset that you'll probably never see Linden again, but maybe it's for the best. Sometimes it's easier to let go without saying goodbye.

Lastly, you make your way to Ana's room after telling off Rhonda for almost making you choke up a lung. You've never spoken one word to this girl, but somehow she's the hardest to say goodbye to. You take her limp hand in yours and pray for the first time in your entire life. It goes a little something like this;  _Dear God, please take away the pain and substitute it with hope. Amen._

Ana's mother comes in some time later. She doesn't look surprised to see you this time, just smiles warmly and stands at the end of Ana's bed. She talks about how smart Ana was and how she was going to go to a good college after high school. "All of her teachers loved her. Her friends did too. There was drama, of course, but when is there never  _not_ drama with teenagers?"

It's a rhetorical question but you answer anyway. "Never," you agree, gripping Ana's hand a little bit tighter.

There's a lengthy pause; silence other than the occasional beep, beep, beep that sounds from Ana's heart monitor. You're both used to the sound though. You're used to this sad hospital, this sad time of day, this sad life.

Eventually, Ana's mother eyes you seriously and breaks the silence, asking, "What would you want if, God forbid, you were in my daughter's place?"

You don't even want to imagine what it'd be like to live in a coma for almost a year. It sounds lonely, and it looks just as lonely as it sounds. Friends start off visiting you every day, then every week, every month, but then slowly but surely they all stop showing up.

It doesn't mean they don't care though. Just because your life stopped doesn't mean there's did. Eventually, they move on, because if they don't, they'll drown. Like fish.

Ironically, you're thinking of fish bowls when you tell Ana's mother, "I'd want to be set free."

Sure, no one knows if she'll wake up again. It could be tomorrow, next week, a few years, never. Nobody knows. But Ana needs to move on, and her mother has to let go.

Over the last couple of weeks, you've learned that sometimes you have to embrace the fear of not knowing, even if you're not ready, because what if you're never ready? Then you're just wasting precious life.

As you leave Ana's room, you see Volunteer Boy leaning up against the counter of the nurse's station. He winks at you just as a strike of pain shoots through your head. For a moment you see double, and then triple. Your vision fades to black as you pass out on the floor.

\--

You open your eyes and the headache is gone. Disappeared. Vanished. Now, instead of on the floor of a bleak hospital, you're sitting on a couch, surrounded by dancing bodies and bumping music.

Although your migraine has subsided, you still feel a bit dizzy, almost tipsy. Your vision is a bleary mess as you scan the stuffy room, but it ironically comes into focus just as you feast your eyes on  _her_.

She's holding a beer in her right hand and Sam's hand in her left. Their fingers are raveled together, tight, and you feel faint at just the sight of them being all couple-y together; smiling and laughing and touching, and fucking Christ, you need to vomit.

Despite the awesomely fake show she's putting on, what Quinn really wants is you. It's all in the eye contact. She doesn't take her bright hazels off of you as she whispers something into Sam's ear and then walks off. You don't even hesitate before following after her.

The bathroom door is unlocked. The brass doorknob turns without a problem. As soon as you step inside, strong hands pull you in, shut the door behind you, and push you up against the sink all in one swift motion. You're impressed to say the least, but then again, Quinn has always been quite impressive.

You give it to her just the way she likes it; the way Sam will never be able to please her, satisfy her. She breathes hotly against your neck when your fingers hit that perfect spot. She falls apart in your arms, quicker than she usually comes, and now you're impressed with yourself.

Killing the mood, there's a knock on the door.

Annoyed, you mumble, "Taken," against Quinn's lips. 

"Oh, not  _again_." You recognize his voice as soon as he says  _oh._ It's Puck. He's known about  _it_ for awhile now but keeps it a secret because Sam's his best friend and he's in love with you. Secrets seem to surround you at every turn nowadays.

"Go away," you shout at the door, refusing to let go of this moment. You don't hear anything after that, and Quinn lets out a sigh of relief.

She gives you one of those smiles she loves giving you. You love that smile, so you kiss her, nice and slow. You tell her you love her through that kiss, and you also say it aloud. She doesn't repeat the sentiment. It's nothing new, but it doesn't hurt any less than usual.

"Love me," you say, and then again, "Love me."

But Quinn just kisses you again, molds her lips against yours, and then sucks on your bottom lip as she slides her tongue against the front row of your teeth. You moan in sweet gratitude. Maybe you're pressuring her, and maybe she's avoiding your questions.

Tonight is full of so many maybes. Maybe she'll finally tell Sam about the two of you. Maybe she'll finally admit to being in love with you. Maybe Sam will understand and wish you the best. Maybe you're drunker than you thought to actually believe he'd do that.

Instead of confessing her love for you, Quinn says, "I can't break his heart like that."

"But what about my heart?" you ask, stroking the hair on the back of her neck.

Quinn doesn't answer. She gives you this look; this penetrating stare. You only see what you want to see through those bright eyes of hers. She could be telling you anything; like  _back off_ , or  _get lost_ , or _fuck this_ , but all you can hear is your frantic heartbeat.

"Wait three minutes, okay?" she reminds you, and then gives you a kiss on the cheek.

With that, she's gone, leaving you behind in a way-too-bright bathroom. Three minutes your ass. You don't even wait ten seconds before chasing after her. Fuck whoever sees you.

Puck is waiting outside with this disappointed expression. The look on his face as he shakes his head makes you even more frustrated than Quinn's refusal to answer any of your goddamn questions.

"Where'd she go?" you ask frantically, eyes darting up and down the hallway.

Leaning up against the wall, Puck folds his arms over his chest. "Does it even matter?"

"Of course it matters. I need to talk to her."

"No, Santana, what you need is to stop doing this behind Sam's back."

"Doing what behind Sam's back?"

You stop breathing for a good five seconds as you and Puck turn around to face Sam. His green eyes fill with confusion at the blank expression on your face. You look to Puck; Puck looks back. You try to communicate with him through eye contact alone, but Puck's expression is so stony that you can't get much of a signal.

"Guys, what's going on?" Sam asks slowly in that innocent and weary way of his. "Where's Quinn?"

You're drunk, so the words  _sucking my dick_ are right on the tip of your tongue, but Puck shakes his head from behind Sam with this warning glare in his eyes. Instead, you end up saying, "I don't know." It's the first time you've told the truth in awhile. The feeling is...freeing.

Puck steps up. "Outside, bro," he says, responding to Sam's unanswered question. "Said something about needing air."

Sam looks between the two of you once again, skeptically. "O...kay. Thanks." He heads off to find her, and you watch with dead eyes.

Puck watches you with the same expression. "Don't you dare say anything," he says in a whisper. You can barely hear him over the blaring music. Good thing you're a pro at reading lips. "I swear it will be the worst mistake you'll ever make."

You can't help but laugh. "Is that a threat?" 

"No, it's a warning," Puck responds, eyeing you pleadingly as he pushes off from the wall. "Please, don't do this. At least not here."

After one more warning look, he walks off in the opposite direction of where Sam just ventured. You watch and wait until he's disappeared behind a group of drunken teenagers. Fuck him.

You grab a beer from out of a cooler on the porch outside. You're definitely looking for trouble as your eyes scan over the entire backyard. Whose house is this anyway? The yard is fucking huge.

Before these drunken thoughts take over your mind, you find Sam and Quinn over at the far end of the backyard, canoodling on the swing sets like a young couple in love.

Puck's words ring in your ear, but you're much too drunk to hear them. You approach them, set on telling Sam everything, but then Quinn looks at you with those eyes of hers. Fuck those hazel eyes.

Sam looks you up and down strangely as you straggle toward them. "Santana, are you okay?" he asks with an arm draped over Quinn's shoulder.

Just the sight of them together like this makes the tips of your ears burn. "I wanna go home."

Quinn scoffs, but Sam squints his eyes with worry. "Why? What happened?" he asks, and you hate him for being so concerned. "It looks like you've been crying."

You look to Quinn, who looks away. "I have my reasons."

Sam stands up from the swing set, green eyes set on you curiously. "Did Puck do something?"

You laugh humorlessly, dryly. "Puck wouldn't hurt a fly. Unlike some people I know." Obviously that comment is aimed towards Quinn. But she doesn't react, as usual, just lifts her chin defiantly. "I just...I feel uncomfortable here," you continue, awkwardly. "And since you're my ride home, I have nowhere else to go."

Sam looks to Quinn, and Quinn shrugs. Her eyes are set firmly on the ground, ashamed. You hate the carelessness she radiates. Maybe she doesn't love you. You don't want to believe it, but how else could she close herself off to you so easily, so quickly after what the two of you just did in that way-too-bright bathroom?

The two of you used to be best friends, but around last year, all of that changed when you came out to her.  _Everything_ changed. You've probably been in love with her forever, and she took advantage of that.

At the time, you didn't mind, but ever since she started dating Sam and wearing his letterman jacket and spending all of her (public) time with him, it's become even harder for you to let this go.

Sam heads back inside to gather up Puck, leaving you and Quinn in the backyard. Alone. As soon as Sam's disappeared into the house, Quinn's grabbing on to your collar, forcing you to look into her cold eyes. "What are you trying to do to me?"

Annoyed, you push her away. "Not everything is about you, Q. Egotistical much?"

"You're trying to ruin my relationship. I really like Sam, and you're getting in the way—"

"Like him," you interrupt with a wry grin. "Do you even  _love_ him, Quinn?"

Quinn has to think way too long about it before she whispers, "Yeah."

Doesn't sound too convincing to you. "If you really cared about him, you wouldn't be fucking me behind his back."

You don't even see her hand coming across the side of your face until a strike of pain shoots through your left cheek. A loud smack echoes out into the night, and you stare at Quinn, completely befuddled, as she rolls her hand into a fist and walks away. Just like that.

You're too shocked to say anything as she heads back inside. Instead of speaking, you smile to yourself, because you've finally got your answer. Just by that action alone—the way she reacted to your words—lets you know that everything you've thought about her loving you is right on the money.

The lady doth protest too much, methinks.

\--

Sam's the only sober one, so he drives. He and Puck sit in the front seat, with you and Quinn in the back. Quinn remains quiet during most of the ride as Puck and Sam sing along to the radio. It's already around 1:30, and your mind won't stop spinning with thoughts of unrequited love and unfairness and unanswered questions.

Your left cheek still stings with the reminder of Quinn's touch. You know you should feel horrible and used and ashamed of what happened earlier, but all that action did was validate your feelings for her. You want her more than ever now, and nothing is going to stop you, not even Quinn.

" _Psst_ ," you whisper, trying to get Quinn's attention, but she just turns her head and purposefully focuses her eyes out the window. "Quinn, c'mon. Talk to me."

"I have nothing to say to you," she hisses, keeping her head down low. "What we have, it's...you're delusional if you think I could ever love you the way I love Sam. Get over it, Santana, because it's never gonna happen. _Never_."

Those words hit you, hard. She says it so harshly, so convincingly that you can't help but believe her this time around. You're a weepy drunk, so you start to cry, unexpectedly, and Quinn looks panicky, reaching across the car to take your hand, but you snatch your arm away. The music lowers suddenly, and Sam glances through the rearview mirror. "Hey, what's going on back there?"

Puck turns around in his seat and gives you this look that says  _don't you dare_ as he subtly shakes his head, but you're drunk and heartbroken, so you're not really thinking about anybody but yourself when you blurt out, "I had sex with Quinn."

After that, chaos ensues. Everything seems to happen all at once. Cheeks burning, Quinn denies it so fast that it's quite obvious she's lying. Sam appears confused, as always, but there's also hurt behind his green eyes. Guilty, Puck says, "It's true, dude. I'm sorry," and you don't speak a word as Sam keeps on driving, continuingly begging Quinn to tell him she didn't cheat on him,  _wouldn't_ cheat on him.

Wiping at your teary eyes, you drunkenly mumble, "I can't stop sleeping with her. I have sex with her because I'm in love with her."

"Shut up, Santana.  _Shut up!_ " It's the first time you've ever heard Sam sound so angry, but you're feeling just as lost as he is.

Filled with pain and animosity and a desire to hit where it hurts most, you say, "We fuck all the time, Sammy. We even did it tonight at the party. In the bathroom. She begged me for my mouth and I gave—"

Mortified, Quinn cuts you off, yelling, " _Stop, Santana!_ "

Puck goes, "Oh shit."

And Quinn tries to pacify. "It was never like that."

But Sam shouts, "I don't even want to talk to you right now." Instead, he argues with Puck about knowing the whole entire time. "What kind of friend are you?" he asks, practically forcing his foot down on the accelerator. The car picks up speed, but you're much too dizzy to tell how fast you're really going.

"Yo, slow down, man!" Puck yells, at the same time Quinn shouts, "Calm down, Sam. You  _need_ to calm down."

Completely delirious, Sam screams over everyone. "Don't talk to me!"

Everyone is arguing and yelling at each other, and now you're the quietest one. You watch with tear-filled eyes and a brained filled with alcohol as Sam breaks down in the driver's seat, Puck tries to calm him down, and Quinn continues to make up excuses.

Blinded by distraction, nobody but you sees the cow standing in the middle of the road. Sam is driving towards it head on, headlights glaring at the stagnant cow as the car continues to approach at top speed.

"Sam!" you scream, pointing forward, and then the car swerves off the road. You hear glass,  _feel_ glass, smell smoke, hear screams, destruction, agony, and then, it's all over.

Damn cow.

\--

Shards of glass prick your skin, and it feels as if your head is about to explode, but then it's all gone, and all you can smell is hand sanitizer and bleached linens. All you can hear is that familiar beep, beep, beep, and a voice over the loud speaker calling,  _"Dr. Shepherd, you are need in the ER. Dr. Shepherd, you are needed in the ER."_  

When you finally open your eyes, a harsh flash of light assaults your vision. You squint against the brightness as you sit up slowly in the stiff hospital visiting chair. You could've sworn you already left this place when you see Ana's mom reading a book in the corner of the room.

"Excuse me?" you call out to her, but she doesn't even flinch. "Misses..." You trail off in confusion, only now realizing that you don't even know the woman's last name. Unsure of what to say to get her attention, you go, "Um, excuse me?"

"She can't hear you."

Your eyes roll dramatically at the sound of Volunteer Boy's voice, but when you look towards the doorway, you're more than shocked to find an old friend standing there with light blue scrubs on and a dopey grin.

"Sam?" you whisper in disbelief. You haven't seen him in almost a year, but for some reason it feels as if you just saw him recently in your dreams. Pushing out of your chair, you take a hesitant step toward him, and then ask, "W-what are you doing here? Do Quinn and Puck know you're back?"

A sad expression passes over his face as he says, "I'm here to take you home, Santana."

Narrowing your eyes, you let out a snort of laughter. "I was just on my way home," you tell him, looking over to Ana's mom in the corner, who still hasn't said a word to neither one of you. "What's going on, Sam? Where've you been?"

Sam doesn't answer your questions, just continues to watch you with a frown as he moves out of the doorway. You look on, completely and utterly puzzled as your father makes his way into the room. "Pop?" you mumble, but he doesn't answer, just continues to shuffle his way into the room and right past you. Ana's mother finally seems to wake up from her fog as she greets your father with a long hug. "The fuck? Pop, what the fuck are you doing here?"

"Santana, they can't hear you."

"W-why not? Am I in some kind of catatonic state or something?"

Sam lets out a sigh. "Not...exactly."

Wearing Sam's old letterman jacket, Quinn ventures inside next. The expression on her face when she looks towards the bed is one you recognize as complete devastation. Your father takes Quinn into his arms as slow and steady tears make their way down her flushed cheeks.

Puck comes in after her, grim-faced and weary, right along with Mr. Jenkins, who takes his hat off in respect. They all gather around Ana's bed, silent and stiff, and you watch them, feeling lost another world completely.

A shiver goes down your spine as you ask in a whisper, "What's happening?" Silence follows your question, and when Sam fails to respond, you narrow your dark eyes on him with a steady gaze. "Sam, what are they all doing here?"

"They're here to say goodbye," he says.

"Goodbye?" you murmur, eyes locked onto your family and friends in confusion. "Why would they say goodbye to  _Ana_? They don't even know her."

Sam steps up to you and puts a cold hand on your shoulder. "San, you know why. You've known this entire time," he says calmly, and then waits a full beat to reveal, "You're Ana."

With those words, many thoughts flash through your mind. But first and foremost, you focus on how dumb Sam must still be to actually think you'd believe the bullshit he's spewing. "I'm—" You cut yourself off with an incredulous laugh. "Are you fucking high, Sam? I'm not Ana. She's...she's—"

"You," he repeats. His eyes become soft as he considers you. "You were in that car accident; the one that happened at the end of junior year. All of us were." With his arms extended, he takes a step toward you, so you take an equal step back. He frowns. "Quinn and Puck were okay, but we weren't so lucky. I died on impact, and you've been in a coma ever since."

You know what car accident he's talking about, and you will yourself not to listen to this crap. He's trying to trick you, get back at you for what you did to him; what you, Puck,  _and_ Quinn did to him. But you're not going to fall for his stories. You're not Ana. There's no way you can be her.

You wrap an arm around your midsection defensively. "You...you couldn't have died," you tell him, looking over to your family and friends longingly. "You ran away from home, or—or you went to a new school." The details are a bit blurry at the moment, so you huff in defeat and mutter, "You—you moved out of Cedarbrook, or something..."

"No, I didn't, San. I  _died_ ," he stresses, eyes wide in urgency. "More than half the town came to my funer—"

"Stop. Stop talking." You're mortified to feel tears prickling at your eyes. "This is—" You huff out a wet laugh and wipe at the tears flowing down your cheeks. "This is ridiculous. Where's Rhonda?"

"Doesn't matter." Sam shrugs, seemingly unconcerned, but you can still see the worry in his eyes. "She won't be able to hear you."

"She has before," you argue stubbornly.

"All of those things you heard; it was people trying to hold on to you, unable to let go," he explains, tilting his head down to catch your teary eyes. "Puck, Quinn, Mr. Jenkins, your mom and dad; they  _finally_ let go. But now it's your turn. Now,  _you_ have to let go, Santana."

When it hits you, it hits hard. Your left temple throbs just thinking about it. Eyes glistening, you turn your head and take in all of your family and friends as they huddle around  _your_ bed, hold  _your_ hand, smooth down  _your_ hair. You watch with blank eyes as your father presses a kiss to your pale cheek and sobs into your shoulder. Quinn takes Puck's hand and grips on tight, and then smothers a sob of her own as Ana's mother— _your_ mother—messes with the blankets and then pulls them up to your chin.

You move towards them with slow steps. They don't even look your way as you stand next your own bedside. It's a frightening sight to see yourself with tubes up your nose and inside your wrists. It's always been you, the entire time, attached to this horrible machine doing all of the breathing for you, hopelessly keeping you alive. "Fuck, I—" You run a finger over your own brow in disbelief. "Oh my God, we were in an accident."

Sam nods hesitantly and rests a hand on your shoulder. This time you don't push him away. "A year today," he adds from behind.

"And you." A flood of tears attack your eyes once again. One blink and it's all over, so you keep your eyes determinedly focused on yourself. "You're dead."

Your lower lip trembles in fear as it all comes back to you. The party. The argument. The cow. The crash.

Quinn and her guilt.  _I can't stand to even be in the same room as you without breaking down._

Puck and his nightmares.  _My best friend is gone because of you._

Mr. Jenkins admiring how strong you've been.  _It's gonna be hard to let go of my favorite student, but I suppose I have no choice in the matter._

Your father dwelling on what he's lost.  _Sometimes I just want my little girl back._

Your mother, who is never home because she's always here.  _I come here every day, yet I don't know if it's because I'm waiting for her to open her eyes, to keep her company, or because I feel guilty for not being there for her before the accident._

And then Sam, vanishing out of thin air.  _So much has happened, but at the same time, nothing meaningful happened either._

Pressing his lips together, Sam smiles, and then says, "I much rather prefer angel, but yeah, I'm dead."

His hollow smile only makes your stomach hurt. A weird sort of pain forms in your chest as you think of that night. "You drove off the road," you whisper in accusation, yet you don't take your eyes off of your own fragile body. " _You_ did this to me."

He hangs his head in guilt. There seems to be a lot of that going around recently, like some kind of contagious disease. "I wasn't trying to hurt anyone," he whispers sadly. "Neither were you, Santana. We've both done our best to repair it, but now it's time for us to go."

Repaired it?  _Repaired_ it? You replay the last couple of months, and you cry into your hands as you think about how you helped father get off the couch, how you finally got Quinn to talk to you, how you unknowingly helped your mother decide to pull the plug.

"No, no, I can't leave," you stammer, pushing your hair out of your face. "My dad. He needs me. I'm his baby girl. His little Ana."

You close your eyes when you remember how he used to call you that when you were younger. You hated the nickname, so he stopped calling you that after awhile, but every now and then, when tucking you in bed, he'd still use the name, softly whispering,  _Sweet dreams, my beautiful Ana._

You flutter your eyes open to find Quinn standing across from you. You know she can't see you, but you reach for her hand anyway. You know she can't feel your touch either, but just knowing that she's here is enough for you. "I-I can't leave them. What about Quinn? She loves me. She loved the  _both_ of us," you ramble on, your tone void of all bitterness and resentment when you say it. "What will happen to her?"

"After you set them free, they'll move on with their lives." Sam slowly circles the bed and ends up on the other side. His green eyes are the lightest you've ever seen them as he says, "They'll never forget you, and they'll never stop loving you, but Santana, it's time to pull the plug."

"No," you say, before you can stop yourself. "I'm—I'm not ready."

"Yes, you are." You continue to shake your head as you gaze down at yourself, looking so despondent, lacking, and weak. You will yourself to wake up. You're not ready to leave everyone behind, but Sam obviously thinks otherwise. "You've been ready this whole time. It was everyone else who needed convincing."

Maybe he's right, you think. Maybe, all this time,  _you've_ been the one in denial.  _You've_ been the one fighting the truth. You knew what was happening all around you, so you shouldn't be scared or shocked or terrified. Maybe you _should_ just let go and let the people you love move on. Maybe this is the way it's meant to be. Supposed to be.

Sam takes your hand and leads you out of the room. It feels like you're floating, almost gliding on air as you give Quinn one last look before you're pulled out into the hallway. There are tears in her heavy hazel eyes, and more than anything, all you want to do is bring her into your arms and wipe the tears away, but Sam doesn't want you to see what happens after they take you off life support, so you continue to follow him out.

As the two of you pass the nurse's station, you bite your bottom lip when you see Rhonda leaning up against the counter with her head in her hands, looking grief-stricken all over again.

You want to say goodbye and thank her for taking care of you, for watching over you, for  _everything_ , but Sam seems to be in a rush as he tugs you along and into an elevator. The doors close slowly. How dramatic.

You don't even realize you're shaking until Sam nudges you in the arm to get your attention. "So,  _does_ knowing make it easier?" he asks, seeming genuinely curious.

Despite your trembling lips, you manage a crooked smile. "Are you really quizzing me on my Aristotle thesis?"

"Hey," Sam says, raising his hands in surrender _. "You_ wrote the essay."

Knowing is the worst, you want to say. Knowing is heartbreaking and scary and stupid, you want to say, but instead you tell him, "I'm sorry."

Eyeing you in confusion, Sam asks, "What for?"

You're apologizing for not knowing; for thinking bliss could actually be better than wisdom. You're apologizing for the hurt you caused in believing this for so long, and for hurting Sam with this belief. But instead of gushing your little heart out, you say, "For what happened with Quinn," because you're not a fucking bug, so you don't gush.

Sam's light blue scrubs become way-too-bright as the two of you make your way out of the hospital. Following him to the old wooden bench, you squint your eyes against the harsh glare. "You loved her, Santana," he says, as if it's that easy, and you wonder if maybe it is. "Please, stop feeling guilty. There's a lot I could blame you for, but loving her is not one of them."

You take in his words, and you let it wash away your pain. It feels...freeing to let it all go, almost as freeing as finally telling the truth. The sky splits in half, and you roll your eyes at the drama of it all.

Socrates was a pompous bum. Plato was the philosopher who should have been king. Aristotle was a smart ass who thought he knew everything. You know all there is to know about these dead guys, so what about  _you_? What have  _you_ left on this earth?

Quinn and her charming smile.  _If I wanted to find you, you'd know it._

Puck and his forgiving soul.  _I love everything about you._

Mr. Jenkins always looking to challenge your mind.  _You're so driven and fearless and willing to take on the world._

Your dad finally getting off the couch.  _Good._ _I think I'm ready._

Your mom letting go of her denial.  _I like to pretend she can hear me, you know._

And then Sam in his light blue scrubs.  _Don't give up until there's no way down._

**Author's Note:**

> Title lyrics from the song "Your Ex-Lover is Dead" by Stars


End file.
